Breaking Point

asked, gesturing toward the closed door of the interrogation room.
    “We’re watching him on the monitor,” Reed said. “He’s fidgety, to say the least.”
    Reed backed his wheelchair into his office and Joe followed. Deputy Justin Woods, evidence tech Gary Norwood, and Dulcie looked up from where they sat on folding chairs in front of a television monitor. The black-and-white image was of Juan Julio Batista seated at a bare table. He was aware of the camera lens above him and glanced at it furtively.
    Dulcie looked concerned. She was a famously by-the-book county attorney. Joe grinned at her in an effort to reassure her she’d have a clean prosecution, that not too many rules had been broken. That this might
flirt
with entrapment but not quite cross over the line.
    He held up his digital recorder. “It was Blevins working with Batista.”
    To Norwood, Joe said, “When you transcribe this, you’ll want to leave out the threats.”
    Norwood smiled and Dulcie moaned.
    “Don’t worry, Dulcie, you can lose the tape and the transcription later. You won’t even need it.”
    Joe turned to the image of Batista. He looked small, pale, and nervous. There was an ugly red welt over his right eye.
    As if reading his mind, Reed said with transparent insincerity, “He forgot to duck when we put him in the cruiser. He doesn’t like to be in handcuffs. Apparently, he still doesn’t think much of us small-town Barney Fifes.”
    “Has he talked?”
    “No,” Reed said. “And I don’t suspect he will for a while. That may change when he realizes he may not get out right away.”
    Dulcie said with caution, “He refused to answer questions and he immediately demanded his lawyer so we backed off. From what I understand, his counsel is flying up from Denver as we speak.”
    Joe said, “Good thing I don’t have to care about that kind of thing anymore.”
    “Joe . . .” she said, her voice trailing off.
    “I promised you ten minutes with him if he showed up and no more,” Reed said to Joe. “So you better get in and get out. Be quick.”
    Joe nodded. “Are you going to watch on the monitor?”
    “Yes, and it’s being recorded,” Dulcie said, obviously uncomfortable with the arrangement. “So don’t . . .”
    But Joe had already turned and marched out of the office for the interrogation room.
    —
    J UAN J ULIO B ATISTA looked up at Joe like a trapped animal. His cuffed hands were on top of the table, his fingers interlaced. His eyes narrowed as Joe sat down across from him.
    Batista said, “I’m not saying a word to anyone until my lawyer gets here. You have no right to question me any further. I know my rights.”
    Joe shrugged. “I’m not a cop. Those rules don’t apply to me. I resigned, remember?”
    “Then why are you here?”
    Joe said, “I’ve found it’s more efficient to do some things when you
don’t
have a badge.”
    Batista looked puzzled.
    Joe plucked the recorder out of his pocket and placed it on the table between them. He hit the play button of his conversation with Blevins. Batista’s face drained of color while he listened. Joe turned it off as Blevins said
Please, dear God, get him off me.
    “That’s what was driving me crazy all along,” Joe said. “How you knew to send the agents up here so quickly when Butch started working again. Now I know.”
    “That was obviously coerced,” Batista said, his voice not as strong as he’d probably intended it, Joe thought. “It will never stand up in court.”
    “It doesn’t have to,” Joe said. “Blevins will cut a deal and throw you under the bus to save himself. And proving you called him repeatedly will be a matter of getting your agency phone records. My buddy Chuck Coon with the FBI is in the process of obtaining them now. You’re going to prison, Batista. Rawlins, Wyoming, will be your new home. And no one deserves it more than you.”
    Something went dead in Batista’s eyes.
    “My wife is really smart, and she put together a timeline,” Joe said. “Tell me if she got anything wrong, okay? We want to make sure we understand the whole story.”
    Batista didn’t speak.
    “You grow up in Chicago as a dweeb named John Pate. No one likes you much because you’re not a likeable boy, but you have a burning desire to make something of yourself and show
them
someday. So you can’t wait to leave all that behind you and you go to college out of state in Fort Collins. You kind of reinvent yourself there, right? College is a